


Stranger in the Sacred Heart

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s06e18 Milagro, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Jealous Fox Mulder, Season/Series 06, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: All it took were six simple words. Words so volatile and forbidden, the breath from which they were spoken should've never conjured them to life, allowing them to see the light of day.These words belonged to her. They resided in the dark recesses of her soul, never to be exposed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Milagro story which forces our favorite FBI couple to come to terms with Padgett's confession that Scully is in love with Mulder. 
> 
> Lots of Angst, sprinkled with some hurt/comfort, and eventual fluff. More story driven than my past works, without as much smut, but lots of unresolved sexual tension.
> 
> Part one of a two-part series. The next installment will be a more explicit post-The Unnatural story that shows the progression of their physical relationship.

**Scully's Apartment, Georgetown - 8:39 pm.**

**Sunday, April 18th 1999**

 

Scully stands lifelessly under the heavy stream of her shower. She's unsure how long she's been here now. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time feels foreign to her since she was found lying on Mulder's cold, hard floor, drenched in her own blood. Nothing seems real.

 

She squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears from falling. Vague images of the last few hours play across the inside of her eyelids like scenes from a horror movie...

 

Blood. There was so much blood. _Her_ blood. She felt death's cruel grip on her heart as it strangled the life from her body. She was dead. Her entire body felt cold. Even as Mulder drove her home, his Navajo blanket wrapped tightly around her, the car's heat cranked as high as it would go, she couldn't will her body to stop shivering.

 

He protested as he pulled up to the curb outside her apartment.

 

_“Let me stay with you. If not the whole night, at least just a few hours to make sure you're okay. You're in shock.”_

 

The pleading look he gave her tugged at her heart-- the very heart that beat frantically against her ribs, pumping the essence of life through her veins.

 

Inside, she still felt dead.

 

“Mulder, I'm fine. I just really need a hot shower,” she said in a measured, composed voice. He had already witnessed enough of her weakness-- her vulnerability-- today. She dared not let him see any more...

 

Hot blades of water relentlessly pelt the skin on her chest, finally numbing the nagging pain that's been there since she left Mulder's apartment.

 

She sobs, quietly.

 

The tears that fall from her face mix and mingle with the water from her shower, trailing down her body and disappearing into the drain below-- effectively washing away the evidence of her frailty.

 

Opening her eyes, she takes in a shaky breath, and lets it out carefully. The rhythmic sound of water as it beats against the tiles of her shower anchors her back to reality.

 

Slowly, she's coming back to life.

 

Except...

 

_‘Agent Scully is already in love.’_

 

His pretentious voice echoes through her head like an unwelcome intruder.

 

That's all Padgett was, anyway. A stranger who had no right to trespass into her life and steal from her not only her dignity, but the sanctity of her privacy-- something that she's always guarded and protected with utmost vigilance.

 

All it took were six simple words. Words so volatile and forbidden, the breath from which they were spoken should've never conjured them to life, allowing them to see the light of day.

 

These words belonged to her. They resided in the dark recesses of her soul, never to be exposed.

 

It was bad enough that Padgett provided her partner with a glimpse into her innermost thoughts and feelings-- parts of her that he should've never had access to. Though not everything written in Padgett's novel was completely factual, his observations were eerily astute, much to her chagrin.

 

It was unsettling, to say the least, and made her question everything she thought she knew about herself.

 

Was she really such an open book? If a complete stranger could infer such intimate details about her life, then what about everyone else?

 

What about Mulder?

 

He had seemed completely unaffected by Padgett's illicit confession. Her whole world had come crashing down, and it's as if nothing at all had changed between them.

 

Normally, she'd happily welcome Mulder's feigned ignorance to something as embarrassing as a secret love confession from her on behalf of his next-door neighbor.

 

His silence, though, feels like rejection. Instead of liberating her, giving her the opportunity to act like nothing had happened, it only makes her feel foolish.

 

Alone.

 

Why was it so hard for him to acknowledge their love for one another?

 

Why was it so hard for her?

 

The water starts to run cold, jolting her from her obsessive thoughts, and she turns the shower off, blindly reaching for a towel on the rack.

 

Steam bellows from the bathroom as she opens the door, and pads her way to the bedroom. The air chills her overheated, damp skin causing goosebumps to rise against the cold in protest.

 

She rummages through her dresser for something to wear as she wraps her arms around herself, shifting from one foot to another in an attempt to keep warm. Droplets of water dangle perilously from the ends of her damp strands before falling, one by one, onto the plush carpet below. Her hands run over the silky fabric of her neatly folded pajamas. She shivers.

 

 _‘That won't do,’_ she thinks to herself. _‘Not tonight.’_

 

Digging through her bottom drawer, she finds an old pair of large sweatpants and a grey, faded Knicks t-shirt.

 

Several years ago, during one of their cases away from home, his clothes got mixed up with hers at the hotel laundromat. It was only later that she realized his t-shirt and sweats somehow found their way into her suitcase. She intended to return them to him the next day. Suffice it to say, that never happened…

 

On nights like tonight-- nights she aches to be near him, to feel him wrapped around her, his body pressed tightly against hers-- she indulgently wears his clothes.

 

Maybe this is as physically close as she'll ever get to him, she thinks. She could've died today never knowing the feel of his fingers on her bare skin, his lips against hers. A lump forms in her throat at the thought. She feels like crying. There aren't any tears left to cry. Padgett stole those from her, too.

 

She crawls into bed, and disappears under the sheets-- the darkness swallowing her tiny body whole. Tonight she is a fragile soul, broken and lost, only a shell of the person she so desperately wants to be, hollowed out and filled with nothing but the overwhelming ache to be held and loved.

 

Tomorrow, she'll reemerge as Agent Dana Scully, MD, complete with her buttoned-up suits and the dry wit of a practiced skeptic.

 

She's played this role one too many times-- her life stuck on repeat like some twisted reenactment of _Groundhog Day_.

 

Is it ever going to end?

  


* * *

 

 

**Basement Office, Hoover Building - 9:27 am.**

**Monday, April 19th 1999**

 

“All I'm saying is that I think you should take a day or two for yourself. You've been through a lot, Dana.” She scoffs at the use of her first name. It stings.

 

Brushing her dismissive attitude aside, he reaches out to place his hand over hers. He's not going to let her push him away. Not this time.

 

Her eyes finally meet his.

 

“Scully, I'm only saying this because I care about you. Not because I don't think you're strong enough to handle this on your own, but because you shouldn't have to be.”

 

Her expression softens a little, and she lets out a defeated sigh, removing her hand from his to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She fixes her attention upon a suddenly very interesting piece of fuzz on her black skirt, picking at it nervously, as she sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth.

 

Even when she's nervous, she's beautiful. He has to sit on his hands just to prevent himself from reaching out to touch her cheek.

 

“Mulder, look, I just want to work. I _need_ to work. I need things to go back to the way they were before--”

 

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.

 

His heart lodges itself in his throat at her words.

 

 _Back to before his psychotic neighbor spilled the beans about her being in love with him…_ _that's what she wants to say._

 

God, she could be so hard-headed and stubborn, sometimes. Then again, so could he.

 

The truth is, he's afraid. If he were even half the man that Scully deserved, he would've demanded that he stay with her last night. He would've crawled into bed with her, and held her tight as she cried. He would've told her that he's in love with her, too. So much that he can't even think straight when he's around her anymore.

 

Instead, he took the coward's way out-- like he always does-- convincing himself that it's in the interest of their partnership, their friendship. Lately, that argument seems to be falling more flat with each passing day.

 

He sighs, and carelessly tosses their latest case file towards her on the desk.

 

“Then let's work.”

 

It was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Waterfront Park, Alexandria - 1:52 am.**

**Wednesday, April 21st 1999**

 

_ Scully cries out in terror, drowning in a sea of her own blood, gasping for air, and reaching out to him.  _

 

_ “Mulder, please!” she screams in pain. The sound almost stops his heart cold. _

 

_ He runs to her, his legs carrying him as fast as he can go. She's drifting away from him. Just out of reach. No matter how hard he tries, he can't get to her.  _

 

_ “Scully, no!” He calls out to her, desperately. _

 

_ A hooded man dressed in black swoops in before him, and snatches her up into his arms, quickly disappearing off into the darkness... _

  
  


He's had the same nightmare three nights in a row, now, and each night he wakes drenched in sweat, a sickening feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He can never go back to sleep. 

 

So he runs. 

 

He runs until his lungs burn with need for air. Until every muscle in his body screams for more oxygen, and he thinks he can't go another step. 

 

He runs until he can't hear her blood-curdling screams in his head anymore. Until he can't feel the agonizing dread of not being able to reach her in time.

 

He runs until he can't feel  _ anything _ . Until he feels completely numb.

 

The air is unusually crisp and cool for mid-April. He stops at a parkside bench to catch his breath. By his calculations, he's run at least 5 miles. 

 

Silence fills the air around him, and he hears nothing except his strangled breathing and the rhythmic lapping of water against the rocky shoreline close by. In the distance, a homeless man huddled against a bench coughs then blows air into his fists in an attempt to warm them. 

 

Mulder reaches into his wallet before walking over, and depositing himself on the bench near the man, handing over a crisp, ten dollar bill. The man holds it up to his face as if to examine its legality, before stuffing it into his jacket pocket with a satisfied nod.

 

“Doncha think it's a little late to be out here walkin’ around?” 

 

“Probably. I couldn't sleep,” Mulder says to the horizon. Multicolored lights from different boats and watercraft sparkle in the distance.

 

“I think I seen you out here before. Must not get much sleep, eh?”

 

“Heh. Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He picks up a rock by his feet, and hurls it off into the water.

 

“Got woman troubles, do ya?” The man breaks out into a coughing fit, and wraps his blanket around himself tighter. 

 

Mulder glances down at the man, surprised.

 

“Why would you say that?”

 

“Only two reasons a man can't sleep at night: One's woman troubles, and the other's money troubles. Seeing as you already gots the money, I figure it must be the woman.”

 

“Huh.” He nods, then stares off into the distance again. “She's, uh… she's my work partner.”

 

Why he was telling a complete stranger about his personal issues, he has no idea. He just feels the inexplicable urge to talk to someone… anyone.

 

“Ahhh, well, that make it tough, don't it? She must be a pretty damn good looker.”

 

Mulder shoots him an amused look, before letting out a chuckle.

 

“Yeah. Damn good.” 

 

“It's the good lookin’ ones that always give the fits. So, she decided she's too good lookin’ for your pretty-boy face then, eh?” The man laughs before another coughing attack wracks his body.

 

“Oh, she's definitely too good looking for me. But that's not the problem.”

 

The man waves his hand in front of him in a 'please continue’ motion.

 

“Well, you see…” Mulder clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “See, um, well I found out from… someone… that she has feelings for me. And…” 

 

_ God, how can he explain something like this to someone he doesn't know without sounding like a lovelorn high schooler? _

 

“And, well, I think she's scared to let me know because we work together, and she's afraid of that coming between our partnership. Truth is, maybe I am, too.”

 

“So, what, then you gonna just let her suffer until she finds some betta lookin’ hot shot to come along, an’ sweep her off her feet?”

 

“I, uh…” Mulder swallows thickly.  _ Jeez, this guy is like some kind of ghetto Yoda. _

 

“She ain't gonna wait around foreva, kid. I don't know a lot 'bout women, but I know that they gon’ keep lookin’ 'till they find a man that's gonna give 'em some lovin’. Women is weird creatures. They act tough, but they really jus’ want a man to hold 'em close at night.”

 

“I want to be that person. I just don't know how without messing things up.”

 

“You love her?”

 

Mulder nearly chokes at his candid question. He rubs nervously at the back of his neck.

 

“Yeah, I love her.”

 

“If you love her, and she loves you… an’ it's really love, then trust me, kid… you can't mess it up.”

 

_ If only it were that simple.  _

 

'It's that simple.” 

 

_ Shit, was he reading his mind now, too? _

 

“You know, I, uh, didn't catch your name.”

 

“Name's Benny.”

 

_ Not Yoda, then. _

 

“Well, Benny, I gotta say… I'm not the kinda guy who goes to a therapist but, if I did, I'd fire my therapist, and give him your number instead.”

 

“Yeah, well, you want any more advice, it'll cost ya another ten bucks.”

 

“In that case, I better take a rain check.” 

 

Mulder gets up, and stretches, before he nods in Benny's direction. 

 

“Take care of yourself.”

 

As he turns to jog away, Benny yells after him...

 

“I betta not see ya around here anymore, kid! Go grow a pair, and tell that pretty girl of yours how you feel!”

 

Mulder gives the man a mock-salute, before disappearing off into the distance.

 

On the run home, his mind keeps mulling over his conversation with Benny; how he wishes it really were that simple just to tell Scully he's in love with her. Since when were things ever that simple between them? He already told her once that he loved her and, though his inhibitions were lowered because of the pain medication, it didn't make it any less true. He's loved her for years. Being in-love with her, well, that's something else entirely. How's he supposed to drop that little nugget of information? 

 

_ 'Hey, Scully, here's a slideshow of some creepy, mangled, horrifying creature we're about to risk our lives chasing down but, also, I'm hopelessly in love with you.” _

 

That'd be a sure-fire way to get her to shoot him. Again.

 

He thinks of Padgett. 

 

How could such a lonely, pathetic man possibly come within moments of getting a woman like Scully into bed with him? 

 

It was quite possible that he had some sort of psychic powers of persuasion by the way Scully seemed so completely entranced by him. But what if the things he wrote about Scully in his novel were true? Or at least some of them? The thought that his beautiful and brilliant partner felt the grip of loneliness so profoundly as to almost allow herself to fall into the arms of a complete stranger terrified and angered him in equal measure. He wishes he could say that he's never seen this side of her before, but that would be a lie. The last time something like this happened was right before she revealed her cancer diagnosis to him. What's her reason now, he wonders? He's almost too scared to know-- scared that maybe the reason this time is actually him.

 

Her emotionally distant behavior has him worried. The realization that she's been through a traumatic event, and might need some time to get back to her usual self, isn't lost on him. However, there is an elephant in the room that they have yet to acknowledge: Scully is in love with him. 

 

Or is she? 

 

_ ‘So much for being one of the FBI's top profilers,’ _ he thinks.  _ 'I can't even discern if my partner of 6 years, the woman I know better than anyone, is in love with me.’ _

 

Sure, there had been times he'd hoped. Times he'd wished. Times he'd thought he knew for sure. 

 

In the seconds after Padgett's revelation, he could've sworn he saw her cheeks take on a pinkish hue. She wouldn't even meet his gaze, and offered no excuse, no outright dismissal, not even a witty remark or joke, in response. She was silent the whole ride home after that. If she was trying not to give credence to Padgett's claims, she was doing a piss-poor job of executing it.

 

Every instinct he has tells him that she is, indeed, in love with him-- that Padgett wasn't just messing with his head. 

 

However, knowing it, and knowing what to actually  _ do _ about it are two very, very different things. Confronting her about it now could only put more undue strain on their partnership… it could cause her to shut him out completely. 

 

Yet, giving her space seems to be only making things worse. 

 

He's at a complete loss. There doesn't seem to be an easy solution, and he can't help but feel they're running out of time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Autopsy Bay #1, Quantico - 7:12 am.**

  
  


Being a medical doctor had its advantages. 

 

In the civilian world, it meant being able to help out in unexpected emergency situations, or when a family member needed a prescription or a medical opinion. It was a profession that held a lot of dignity and respect. Before she joined the FBI, it even got her out of a few speeding tickets.

 

In the law enforcement world, it afforded her the opportunity to work per diem on cases as a trained pathologist and forensic researcher when she needed a distraction from field work…

 

_ Or the partner she does field work with. _

 

Today, she decided she needed that distraction.

 

There is something intrinsically fulfilling about being a forensic pathologist that speaks deeply to her soul. Something that, once she looks past the macabre, often times depressing, nature of it all, makes her feel like she's actually making a difference in this crazy, messed-up world. It puts things into perspective.

 

It’s the reason she joined the FBI, all those years ago-- to help people. 

 

As a young resident at a level 1 trauma center, Scully had seen it all. She'd seen people beaten, stabbed, shot, abused, immolated, run over by cars, mauled by trained dogs, electrocuted, tortured… she'd absolutely seen the worst humanity had to offer. And, through it all, she couldn't help but think she was little more than a Band-aid. She'd save people from the brink of death, and bandage them up, only to send them back out into harm's way. She'd sit with families as they sobbed over loved ones lost too young, only to realize that there wasn't a damn thing she could do to help them anymore.

 

That summer after her residency ended, and the FBI recruiter had come to speak to her, Scully had made up her mind. She was going to help bring the people who did these things-- these abusers, criminals, murderers-- to justice. She was going to give the victims and their families closure and peace of mind.

 

She's never looked back since.

 

After she puts her things into the locker, and changes into her scrubs, Scully reaches for her cell, and takes a deep, unsteady breath as she presses speed dial. 

 

After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. She balances the phone between her shoulder and ear as she attempts to tie her hair back.

 

“Mulder, it's me. If you're at the office, you've probably noticed I'm not there. I've, uh, decided to take the day and catch up on a few autopsies at Quantico. I know we were supposed to interview a couple of suspects today for the Henderson case, but I imagine you can handle that on your own. So, I, um, guess I'll see you later.”

 

As she hangs up, she feels a pang of guilt wash over her. She knows she's avoiding him, but lately it's become almost unbearable to even be in the same room as him. 

 

She feels utterly and completely humiliated by what happened to her. That somebody like Padgett could break past her guarded exterior, and reduce her to nothing more than a lonely, needy woman. In front of Mulder, no less.

 

Of course she has needs. She  _ is _ a woman. Never in the years of struggling to prove herself as an equal to her male colleagues in her work has she ever tried to hide that fact. Quite the contrary, actually-- she embraces it. 

 

However, she’s always separated her personal needs from her work life. Specifically, matters of the heart-- of love and romance and sexual desires. Scully is nothing if not a professional. These non-platonic feelings that she's developed for her partner over the years have made her feel torn. As desperate as she is to fill that void in her heart, to find someone that she couldn't imagine living without, she's more terrified of letting another person in, especially someone she works with. She's been down that road with past lovers/colleagues before. It never ended well.

 

She is contradictory to her very core, her very being. She craves to be loved so wholly and completely by someone, yet eschews the very notion of it all. Mulder is the most important person in her life. Even if he did feel the same way about her, she's frightened that adding a romantic element to their relationship would only complicate things. Maybe it'd be good for a while, but what if things went South? She'd risk losing him for good.

 

And so this is her conundrum: open herself up to the possibility of something more with Mulder, temporarily abating the growing pangs of loneliness, and possibly ruining their friendship and partnership in the process. Or spend the rest of her life alone because there would never be another man who could make her feel the way Mulder does. He's it, for her, and that realization petrifies her.

 

Scully makes her way to the main autopsy room, glancing down at the notes provided to her on the latest victim, a young Jane Doe who was found gagged and bound in the Potomac river two days ago. Completely engrossed in the report, she's unaware that there is another person standing in the doorway, and by the time it registers, it's already too late. She bumps into the mysterious figure with such force, it knocks the report from her hands, scattering papers and photos across the tile floor. Instinctively, she grabs a fistfull of the person's shirt in order to keep from falling.

 

“Shit,” she mutters as she attempts to hold herself upright. A pair of strong hands grip her shoulders to hold her steady.

 

“Woah, you okay there?” 

 

Glancing up, she sees a tall man with dark brown curly hair, and piercing blue eyes staring back at her, an amused look written across his face. 

 

For a minute she forgets to breathe.

 

She straightens her scrub top, and smooths a palm over her hair as she clears her throat, and finds her voice.

 

“I, uh, yeah. I'm fine. God, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention, and,” she stops herself from rambling. “I'm sorry, who are you?”

 

He chuckles before bending down to pick her papers off the floor. She's still frozen in place-- the connection between her brain and skeletal muscles apparently deciding now is a perfect time to stop cooperating.

 

“Dr. Jason Rigby,” he stands, offering her the report, and a beaming smile.

 

“Jason. I, um, I wasn't aware that room one was booked for today,” she explains as she rearranges the papers in her hands.

 

“Technically, I didn't book it,” he offers, hesitantly. “See, I just finished my residency in forensic medicine, and was told I could help with your examination today. That is, if it's okay with you.”

 

Her heart sinks into her stomach. Normally, she'd be okay with having a fresh pair of eyes to accompany her on an autopsy, and she wasn't above allowing a student to shadow her, but she was looking forward to just spending some time alone, today, with her thoughts. It absolutely did not help that the man she would be spending hours with in this tiny, cramped room happened to look like a slightly, less rugged version of George Clooney with blue eyes. He was distractingly handsome, but a little too pretty for her taste.

 

“No, it's fine,” she relents, trying not to come across as disappointed. “You’re absolutely welcome to assist me. I guess I'm just used to working alone.”

 

“I appreciate it, um…” he hesitates. “Sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

 

“Special Agent Dana Scully,” she offers her hand, and he shakes it slowly, his eyes boring into hers. She looks away as a blush creeps across her face.

 

“Special Agent?” he asks, surprised. “AND a medical doctor? That's quite an accomplishment. I feel a little intimidated,” he clears his throat and smiles. “Any other titles I should be aware of? Fine tea connoisseur? World boxing champion? Ukulele prodigy?”

 

She raises her eyebrow at him. He's fishing for information, and for someone who is normally a closed book, she should be annoyed. Instead, she throws caution to the wind, and decides to join in on the fun. He seems harmless enough.

 

“Guinness World record holder for the owning the largest collection of ceramic cat figures,” she deadpans. His mouth opens in shock. 

 

Her lips quirk upward slightly, and he finally realizes she's joking.

 

“Oh, haha, you're kidding,” he looks down, and purses his lips in embarrassment. “That was… you got me good,” he chuckles.

 

“So, Jason, how long have you been a doctor?” Scully asks nonchalantly as she makes her way to the equipment storage cabinet. She's curious about him. It isn't often that an attractive man piques her interest. She has the sudden urge to find out how old he is. A little flirting would be harmless enough, but she doesn't want to rob the cradle, so to speak. He looked young, but not too young, and this was her roundabout way of gauging his age.

 

“I've been a infectious disease pathologist for almost four years, but I've only just now finished my residency in forensics. I thought I'd branch out, and try something different.” 

 

She did a quick calculation in her head: if he started his undergrad at eighteen, did four years of medical school, and around three years of specialized training, plus four years as a pathologist, that would make him at least thirty. She's in the clear.

 

“And so the FBI is allowing you to train here?”

 

“They're letting me complete my preceptorship here, yes. I figure the FBI knows a thing or two about forensics. Seems like a great place to learn.”

 

“I'm surprised they haven't goaded you into joining as a Special Agent yet,” she smiles as she arranges her tools and equipment methodically on the large metal table. “They barely let me finish my residency before they recruited me.” 

 

“They've tried, believe me. To be honest, that's probably why they're even allowing me into Quantico. I think they're convinced I'll change my mind and join.”

 

“And you don't want to?”

 

“It's just that I… well, I'm not sure I'm cut out for all that excitement. I want to start a family soon, and I have my future to think about. I'm content with my life now, you know?”

 

Oh, does she know. She used to feel that way once upon a time-- a time before she committed career suicide, and decided to follow a brilliant, albeit quirky, FBI profiler with boyish good-looks and an intense affinity for the supernatural to the ends of the Earth. It all seems so long ago. To be honest, she isn't even sure she's the same person anymore.

 

“What about you?” His voice startles her from her thoughts. “Do you have a family?”

 

“I, uh…”

 

“Sorry, that's a personal question, and you barely know me. I don't mean to pry. I just didn't see a ring on your finger, though that doesn't necessarily mean anything because you could've taken it off to do the autopsy… or maybe you're not married, but still have a family, or a significant other, which is perfectly fine, and totally respectable… and I'm rambling now, aren't I?”

 

“Yeah, a bit,” she looks down and smiles, finding his nervous behavior somewhat endearing. “And, no, I don't have a family. Or significant other, really.” ‘ _ Just a partner that I'm madly in love with,’  _ she doesn't add _. _ “This profession doesn't afford a person many opportunities to have much of a personal life,” she bites her lip, and focuses on labeling her specimen containers.

 

“No, I completely understand,” he clears his throat. “I guess, I'm just surprised that someone hasn't snatched you up yet, with as talented and beautiful as you are.”

 

She stops what she's doing to meet his eyes, the tempo of her heart picking up speed, a rush of excitement coursing through her body. Her mind is screaming at her to shut him down, to build up her defenses, and stop this before it progresses any further.  _ You barely know this man, Dana.  _

 

Yet, his earnest, straightforward declarations, and the way he's staring at her, makes her feel wanted, adored, even. It's been so long since she's had the attention of an attractive, single man. Padgett doesn't count. He was a manipulative psychopath who used her solitary, lonely life as a pawn in his own little twisted game to try to gain her affections. Jason, for all intents and purposes, seems to be just a normal guy paying her a compliment, and it feels wonderful.

 

“Thank you,” she says, softly.

 

They spend the rest of the morning engaged in comfortable banter as they conduct a preliminary examination of the victim. Scully feels almost light-hearted, as though a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She's as carefree as she's been in a long time. Jason is unusually easy to get along with, and she feels a certain, superficial attraction towards him. 

 

He's completely the opposite of Mulder, and she's slightly appreciative of that fact. It provides her with a welcome distraction.

 

She's so engrossed in her work-- and the handsome student helping her-- that she doesn't hear her cell phone ringing in the locker nearby.


	4. Chapter 4

**Basement Office, Hoover Building - 12:06 pm.**

 

Mulder slams the receiver of his phone into the base, and lets out an agitated sigh.

 

_Dammit, pick up your phone, Scully._

 

He loosens his tie before getting up to walk over to the corner of the office, grabbing his basketball balancing precariously on top of a pile of folders, and bouncing it back and forth nervously between his hands as he paces the office.

 

It isn't like her to ditch him like this. Especially, during a case. He knows it's not a particularly interesting case-- hell, it's not even an X-File. But she's never just left him to interview suspects on his own without at least a few hours prior notice. They have a routine, a certain way they do things, and she's upset the balance.

 

Right now, they'd be eating lunch at their favorite diner on 5th Street. Or Wong Fu's. He wonders if she’d packed her lunch. Maybe she'll grab a salad at the cafeteria or order out...

 

Maybe he should bring her lunch, instead.

 

His pulse quickens at the thought of surprising Scully with lunch. It's completely unlike him to do something so… domestic. Would she find it odd? Overzealous? Romantic? It's over an hour's drive to Quantico just to bring her something to eat, and he has an interview at four o'clock, but suddenly it seems like the best idea he's ever had. The impulsive urge just to see her is overwhelming.

 

He misses her.

 

Plus, any excuse to see his partner in scrubs is an opportunity he can't resist.

 

Tossing the basketball haphazardly behind him, he grabs his jacket, and heads out the door to Scully's favorite Thai place on the corner of 17th and Church Street.

  


* * *

 

 

**Forensic Science Department, Quantico - 1:55 pm.**

 

Mulder grabs the brown paper bag containing Scully's favorite food-- crunchy Thai chicken salad with extra peanut dressing and sesame noodles-- out of the back of his car before practically sprinting up the set of concrete stairs leading to the science department.

 

In the hall, he weaves his way in between a group of eager FBI recruits wearing lab coats, before stepping into the elevator, and hitting 'B’ on the keypad. He vaguely remembers his way around the building, though it's been ages since he's been here. His heart is beating out of his chest, and a sheen of sweat breaks out across his brow. He doesn't know if it's because he just sprinted up several flights of stairs or because he's anxious to see Scully's face when he surprises her with lunch.

 

The elevator doors finally open up with a 'ding,’ revealing a dimly lit hallway and several sets of large windows lining the walls, each one exposing an autopsy bay inside. The atmosphere feels cold and clinical, and the distinct smell of formaldehyde wafts through the air, mingling with the stale air from the musty basement. He sees light emanating from one of the rooms near the end of the hall, and makes his way towards it, his footsteps echoing loudly off the light green tile walls. The faint sound of laughter stops him cold in his tracks.

 

_Was that Scully?_

 

Cautiously, he makes his way to the edge of the window before taking a deep breath and peering inside. What he sees makes his stomach leap into his throat.

 

Scully is in the corner near the medical scales, weighing what appears to be a human liver, her back turned towards him, but she's not alone. There's a man standing near her, a little too close for comfort. His hand is resting on the small of her back, and he's leaning in to talk in a low, hushed voice near her ear. Mulder can't discern what he's saying, but she lets out a tiny giggle. It sounds incredibly sexy.

 

_God, has he ever heard that kind of sound escape her lips before? Has he ever made her laugh like that?_

 

Blood suddenly rushes to his face, setting the tips of his ears on fire, and he feels sick to his stomach. What the hell was he watching? A million questions run through his head, but he just stands frozen in place, staring at them like an idiot. He can't turn away. He feels like a stalker intruding on an intimate moment, and his fists clench at his sides, fingernails digging painfully into the flesh on his palms. Instinctively, he wants to barge into the room, and give that man a piece of his mind.

 

But he doesn't.

 

He couldn't mortify Scully like that.

 

Instead, he removes a pen and piece of scrap paper from his jacket pocket, scribbling a note and setting Scully's lunch on the table outside the room, before walking away dejectedly.

 

The car ride back to DC is miserable. Not only can't he get the image of Scully and Dr. Handsy-Pants out of his mind, but traffic on the beltway is worse than usual, and it's not even rush hour yet. He scans the radio to see if there has been an accident up ahead. Instead, the local weatherman reports that a freak winter storm is projected to hit DC and the surrounding areas tonight, dumping up to a foot of snow, and forcing the government to declare a state of emergency. The District shuts down when there's even just dusting of snow on the ground, let alone when Snowpocalypse decides to hit. In April, no less.

  


* * *

 

 

**Basement Office, Hoover Building - 7:01 pm.**

 

Scully makes her way down the hallway to the basement office before stopping just short of the door, and glancing down at the crumpled note in her hand...

  


_Thought you might enjoy lunch from your favorite place._

 

_-M_

 

She sighs, and tucks the piece of paper into her jacket before smoothing her skirt, and apprehensively walking inside.

 

Mulder is sitting quietly with his chair tipped back and his legs propped up on the desk, completely engrossed in a copy of “UFO Weekly.” He glances at her briefly through his glasses, before turning his attention back to the article in front of him.

 

“Didn't think you'd show up this evening.”

 

“Where else would I be, Mulder?”

 

“I dunno. I thought maybe you had a date.”

 

Her heart skips a beat.

 

She swallows thickly, and sits on the chair in front of him.

 

“Why would you think that?” she panics, but recovers before quickly changing the subject. “We have case notes to go over. I'm assuming you conducted the interviews today.”

 

“Mmhm,” he says, completely disengaged from the conversation. He turns the page on his magazine.

 

She waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't. The last thing she wants to do right now is play games-- her patience already wearing thin.

 

“So, are you going to share your findings or should I just go home?”

 

He sets the magazine on the desk and removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, and letting out a sigh.

 

“How was lunch today, Scully?” he finally meets her gaze, and holds it. She fights the urge to squirm uncomfortably in her chair.

 

“It was fine. Thank you for the salad,” she offers, her tone aloof, distant. “Though, I'm not sure why you didn't make an appearance if you came all that way to bring me lunch.”

 

She awaits his answer with bated breath as if she already knows the reason.

 

“You seemed a little… preoccupied… at the time. I didn't want to intrude.”

 

“If you mean preoccupied with performing an autopsy on an unidentified victim then, yes, I was preoccupied,” she retorts.

 

“I saw you, Scully,” his voice lowers an octave, and chill runs up her spine at the intensity of his stare. “You weren't alone.” She detects a hint of animosity in his tone, but also something else. Pain?

 

“I had a student with me today.”

 

“Oh, really?” He scoffs. “Are you always so… close… to your students?”

 

Anger begins to bubble up inside her, replacing the feelings of guilt she felt only moments earlier. He had NO right to treat her like he owned her. What she did on her time, and whom she did it with, was absolutely none of his business. It's not like anything happened today anyway. It was all a bunch of harmless flirting. She'd probably never see the man again.

 

Besides, it wasn't like Mulder was ever going to make a move on her. Even armed with the knowledge that she's in love with him, he's still acting as dense as ever. Only now he was resorting to cheap shots-- reprimanding her as if she were a child. It’s one thing to be jealous. It's another to turn it around on her, and make it seem like she’s the one at fault.

 

“What exactly are you implying, Mulder?” She asks, calmly, willing herself not to lose her composure.

 

Mulder tosses his glasses on the desk, and leans forward on his elbows, letting out a frustrated sigh while ruffling his hair.

 

“God, Scully, are you really going to act like you weren't about to… to jump a guy over some girl's mangled corpse during an autopsy?!” He raises his voice.

 

She shoots him a threatening glare, daring him to continue. He looks away, instead, sinking back into his chair.

 

“Have you so little trust in me as to think I could possibly do something so reckless with a guy I just met? A stranger?!”

 

Her mind immediately goes to Padgett, and she bites her bottom lip while closing her eyes, letting out a sigh as though the implication of her words burn right through her. The wounds Padgett left on her heart still run deep.

 

It's hard telling what Mulder thinks of her after the last couple of days. She's not even sure what she thinks. Everything has been so confusing.

 

“Look, Mulder, regardless of what you saw, or what you think you saw, it's frankly none of your business. If I want to ‘jump’ a guy in the autopsy room, that's my choice. If I want to date a guy, or even flirt with a guy, that's my choice. Just because we're partners, doesn't give you any claim over me.”

 

She fights back the angry tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks, and grabs her jacket to walk out the door before giving him the chance to witness her fall apart in front of him. She doesn't look back to see the stunned look of hurt and rejection etched across Mulder's face.

 

“Scully, wait, I--” he starts before she walks away, shutting the door behind her.

 

He doesn't chase after her.

  


* * *

 

 

**Mulder's Apartment, Alexandria - 9:45 pm.**

 

Mulder sits quietly in the dark stillness of his living room as he mindlessly flips through channels on his TV. He's cycled through the entire selection at least ten times, now, not even stopping to watch old reruns of Doctor Who on Syfy. His melancholy demeanor nearly drives him to reach for the dusty bottle of blended Scotch hidden in the back of his kitchen cabinet, but he ultimately decides against it. Alcohol can never dull the pain of a broken heart, he's learned. Nothing can.

 

He can't focus on a thing except the sound of Scully's sensual laughter reverberating through his head on an endless loop, along with images of that man's hand resting on the exact same spot usually reserved for him. _His_ hand belonged there… not some student doctor trying to cop a feel. It had always fit there perfectly as though that part of her were made just for him.

 

_‘Just because we're partners, doesn't give you any claim over me.’_

 

His eyes slam shut, and he breathes out heavily through his nose, as her words slice through him, cutting him deep to the core.

 

Blinding, unbidden rage boils through his veins, and before he can stop himself, he hurls the remote towards the wall beside the TV. Pieces of plastic and metal skitter in different directions across the floor. A lone battery rolls in his direction before coming to a halt at the tip of his foot. Slumping forward, he cradles his head in his hands, and massages circles into his temples as his head begins to throb.

 

Scully was wrong. He _did_ have a claim on her, just like she did him. They belonged together. As partners. As friends. As lovers.

 

She crossed his heart years ago, and never left-- took up residence as though it was where she was always meant to be, and before he realized it, he was a goner. She owned him… mind, body, and soul. There could never be anyone else.

 

Tonight, he's going to prove that to her, consequences be damned.

 

No more games. No more dancing around one another. No more sleepless nights alone on his couch dreaming of what it would be like to feel her bare skin against his.

 

He desperately needs her to know the depth of his feelings. He needs her not to harbor a single doubt in her mind about how much she means to him, how much he loves her.

 

With a newfound sense of resolve, he grabs his coat, steps into his boots, and snatches his keys off the entryway table before heading out into the dark night.

 

As soon as he walks outside, he's met with a frigid gust of wind so bitter cold, it seeps past the thin material of his clothing and settles deep into his bones. He shoves his hands into his pockets as a shiver wracks his body. Thick, heavy snowflakes fall all around him, assaulting his eyelashes and nose, as he makes his way to his car.

 

_Fuck._

 

In the aftermath of everything that happened this evening, he completely forgot about the snowstorm that was about to hit. Already, there was close to an inch on the ground, and his car was covered.

 

Unlocking the door, he grabs the ice scraper and gloves from the back seat, and gets to work clearing the snow from his windows. Almost as soon as he brushes the snow off his car, new snow takes its place, nearly making his efforts futile, but he doesn't give up. Satisfied that he can at least see well enough to drive, he jumps into the driver's seat, and starts the car, not even waiting for it to heat up, before he takes off in the direction of Scully's apartment.

 

•••••••••••

 

There's not another car in sight during the entire ten minutes he's been driving, which should be a bad omen, but he keeps pressing on anyway.

 

“Jesus, where are all the snow plows?” he mutters to himself, turning off the radio so he can better concentrate. The rhythmic sound of windshield wipers fills the silence around him-- they're going full speed yet it's still difficult to see more than five feet in front of the car. His focus stays glued to the lines on the road, which he can barely make out, and he silently prays that he doesn't veer off into the ditch.

 

More than halfway through his journey, the snow starts to fall so heavily that all he can see is a solid wall of white in front of him. He switches on his brights, which only makes the visibility worse, before he sighs defeatedly, and pulls off onto what he hopes is the side of the road, finally rolling to a complete stop.

 

Getting out of the car, he looks around for a familiar landmark in an attempt to pinpoint where, exactly, he is. Over to his right he spots the faint light from a neon sign that reads “Sherry's Beauty Salon.” He guesses Scully's apartment is about three miles straight ahead so he gets back in the car to put on his gloves and hat before zipping up his jacket, and heading out into the frozen urban wasteland ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Scully's Apartment, Georgetown - 10:23 pm.**

 

Scully sits cross-legged on the floor in front of her sofa, watching TV, and unenthusiastically picking at her dinner of grilled parmesan chicken and broccoli. Her appetite is practically non-existent, however, she could easily down a quart of Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream right about now… as cliche as that sounds. She seriously considers running to the convenience store across the street to get some before she realizes it's an absolute blizzard out there. She'd have to be an idiot to go out in this weather.

 

After cleaning up her dishes and stoking the fire, she walks to her bedroom to put on a pair of dark blue flannel PJs. The instinctive need to wear Mulder's sweats almost possess her to reach for the bottom drawer before she pauses and shakes her head…

 

 _‘I can't keep doing this’_ she thinks. _‘I have got to stop thinking of Mulder as anything but my partner or I'm going to drive myself mad.’_

 

As a matter of fact, the next time she sees him she's going to give him his clothes back. They aren’t hers. There is no rational reason for her to hold onto them.

 

Returning to the kitchen, she fills up the kettle for tea, placing it on the stove and igniting the burner, before making her way back to the sofa, and curling up under her throw blanket. The fire spits and pops, and she hears the sound of snow plows scraping the streets in the distance. Suddenly, a deep sense of loneliness sweeps over her, and she feels the overwhelming desire just to disappear. To get away. To escape.

 

Maybe she'll cash in all those vacation days she's accumulated over the last six years, and go someplace warm-- someplace that doesn't get a freak snowstorm in the middle of Spring. Someplace exotic like the Maldives or Greece… she's always wanted to go to Greece. She’ll meet some man with a sexy accent, dark, curly hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. They'll make love in time with the waves crashing outside their door until sunrise. She’ll have champagne and strawberries for breakfast.

 

She lets out a snort at the absurdity of her thoughts, then immediately feels somber again as the day's events play over and over in her mind.

 

She tries not to feel guilty that Mulder walked in on her and another man flirting. It doesn't work.

 

Mulder had actually brought her lunch-- driven over an hour, unprovoked, in the middle of a workday so she could enjoy her favorite food-- and what he apparently saw was enough to make him turn around and drive away without a word. The idea that he could be jealous isn't a profound revelation; he's always been a little possessive when it comes to her, but this time it feels different.

 

Lately, Mulder's peculiar comportment toward her had thrown her for a loop. The mixed signals he’d been giving off were driving her absolutely crazy. One minute, he'd be extremely attentive and flirty, almost annoyingly so, and the next she could barely get him to speak two whole sentences to her. It was almost as if he were stringing her along-- giving her just enough attention to keep her interested without fully committing to anything that could jeopardize their relationship.

 

However, trying to decipher how he really felt about her was becoming a full-time job, and she was emotionally exhausted. She'd grown tired of attempting to read between the lines, yet should she really have expected anything different?

 

Their partnership was proficient in the art of unspoken communication-- something which she admired in the past, and which always served them well, but now felt detrimental to them growing closer on a more personal level. Sometimes, things just needed to be said.

 

Her thoughts go to that night in the hospital after the Bermuda Triangle fiasco. She distinctly remembers that fluttering feeling in her stomach after he had told her he loved her. God, how many years had she dreamt about those three little words, in that particular order, falling from his lips? The elation she felt was quickly replaced with fear and doubt, and she panicked. Could she really have held him to his word when he was under the influence of so many pain medications? She wanted his confession to be sincere-- she wanted it more than anything-- but she wouldn't have been able to stand it if he took it back once he sobered up. So, in true Scully fashion, she kept her distance, and made light of the situation.

 

She's regretted it ever since. Secretly, she wonders if it's the reason for his reluctance to share his feelings with her.

 

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she immediately dismisses it. Instead, she begins to feel angry. Angry at Mulder for choosing that particular moment in time to confess his love for her. Angry that he didn't have the courage, the respect for her, to say it when she could take him seriously. Angry that his cryptic behavior had left her feeling alone and confused.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Though she loves Mulder with every fiber of her being, this is not the life she envisioned for herself-- being caught up in such a dysfunctional relationship with her partner. She needed more. She needed something solid. Definitive. Real.

 

This wasn't love. It was torture.

 

A knock at the door stirs her from her thoughts.

 

_Who could that possibly be at eleven o'clock at night?_

 

It couldn't be Mulder. There's no way anyone could get around in this weather. Maybe Betty, her neighbor, lost her cat Tinker again. Sometimes, when Betty opens the front door, he likes to escape to go hunt mice in the basement. She can only assume it's because the name Tinker is so emasculating, the poor cat goes on a vendetta to defend his honor, proving his alpha-maleness to the other cats in the building, by killing lots of rodents.

 

Scully gets up and makes her way to the door before cautiously grabbing her gun off the entryway table-- an act that's become second nature to her after all these years. She could never be too careful, anymore.

 

Standing slightly on her tiptoes, she peers through the peephole, and is shocked to see her partner on the other end covered in what appears to be snow. Lots of snow.

 

She sets her gun on the table and opens the door.

 

“Mulder, what the hell?”

 

“Good evening to you, ttt-too… Sc-Scully.” He manages through chattering teeth as he shivers uncontrollably, hugging himself tightly.

 

Moving purely on instinct, she grabs him by the shoulders, and walks him over to her fireplace as pieces of snow and ice melt off his clothes onto the floor below, leaving a trail of tiny puddles on the way.

 

“Have you lost your mind? What on Earth possessed you to venture out into this crazy weather? What are you doing here?” She demands, a concerned look strewn across her face, as she grabs the zipper on his coat, and helps him out of the sopping wet material.

 

“Oh, you know, it-tt seemed like a nn-nice night for a ww-walk.”

 

“Mulder, I'm serious! God, you could have hypothermia. We need to get you out of these clothes.”

 

“I thought it would ttt-take a glass of ww-wine or two before I'd ever hear those ww-words come out of your mmm-mouth,” he jokes, giving her his best attempt at a sly smile, though his lips are blue and frozen.

 

Shooting him a threatening glare, she continues to work at his clothing, removing his gloves and hat, then his shirt, and retrieving her throw off the couch to wrap around his shoulders, proud of herself that she manages not to stare at his bare chest in the process.

 

“You're going to have to take off your pants,” she says, catching the amused sparkle dance through his eyes, and immediately holding up her hand to stop the witty remark about to leave his lips.

 

“Don't _even_ start with me, Fox Mulder or, so help me, I will kick you right back out into that freezing cold blizzard before you can bat an eye.”

 

She's using the exact tone of voice a mother would use while scolding her young child, but she's beyond caring at this point. Mulder is essentially acting like a child.

 

“Okay, G-woman, tt-take it easy.” His hands move to the buttons on his jeans as he struggles to get them undone.

 

“It, uh, app-ppears as though my fingers aren't ww-working right nn-now.”

 

Scully sighs and gently brushes his hands away as she unbuttons his jeans, sliding the zipper down carefully, and gliding the material past his hips as she kneels to work at the laces on his boots. She's practically eye level with a very intimate part of him she's not yet well acquainted with, and a blush spreads from her chest to her cheeks. _‘It's a good thing it's cold out,’_ she muses. Mulder clears his throat nervously, and she fights the urge to look up at him as she frees his feet, one by one, from the confines of his boots, helping him step out of his jeans.

 

He's standing before her, now, wearing nothing but his boxers and an anxious look, as he pulls the blanket around his shoulders tightly. Their eyes meet briefly before they both look away, and Scully decides to break the awkward silence hanging in the air between them.

 

“I'm, uh, going to run a shower for you. You have to get warm. You think you can manage by yourself?”

 

_Please say yes. Please say yes._

 

“I tt-think so.”

 

He follows her to the bathroom as she turns on the water-- not too hot as she wants to prevent his body from going into shock-- before laying out a towel, and retreating to her bedroom to dig out his clothes. She sets them on the sink, and leaves him to get undressed.

 

“I'll be right out here if you need me.” He nods as she closes the door behind her.

 

Her mind is filled with a million and one questions as she picks up Mulder's dripping wet clothes to put them in the washing machine.

 

What possible reason could he have for getting himself caught in the middle of a snowstorm? Did he walk the whole way? What was so important that he had to practically risk his life to come and see her tonight?

 

As she wonders about his intentions, she's startled from her thoughts by the loud whistle of her kettle going off, and she makes her way to the kitchen to remove it from the burner.

 

Innumerable moments pass while she just stands at her counter, staring at the steam rising from the tip of the kettle, and listening to the sound of water running in the background. The urge not to picture how very naked and wet her partner is only a few feet away is staggeringly difficult. Reaching for her mug, she engrosses herself in the act of preparing a cup of tea, hoping the menial task will distract her from her unprofessional thoughts, and help her to refocus.

 

Before she can even finish, she detects the sound of the shower being shut off, followed by a few minutes of rustling as she hears Mulder emerge from her bathroom. She crooks her head to see him walking barefoot towards her in his sweats and t-shirt, his spiky hair jutting out in every possible direction, and the breath catches in her throat at the image. After all these years, he still never ceases to take her breath away.

 

The breath that she was holding leaves her lungs in a whoosh as she turns her back, and focuses on playing with the string on her tea bag while it brews in the water.

 

“You look better,” she says, quietly. “If you want some tea, there's a mug in the cabinet. Help yourself.”

 

Suddenly, she feels the heat of his body as he presses up against her from behind, reaching his lean body up and over to grab a mug from the top cabinet. She inhales sharply at the contact, the scent of her body wash, mixed with Mulder's musky scent, fills her nostrils, and she closes her eyes, before making the rookie mistake of turning to face him.

 

As he looks down at her, his hooded eyes lock with hers in a heavy, intense gaze, turning her insides to mush, and quickening her pulse. These were Mulder's Bedroom Eyes™ and they were devastating to any woman foolish enough to become the focus of their attention. She was in dangerous territory.

 

They're standing so close that the rise and fall of their chests press against one another as they breathe heavily, and she swears that his face is slowly inching closer to hers. She's tempted to glance at his lips but, through sheer willpower, stays focused on his eyes instead. The counter is digging painfully into her back, and she grips the edges to prevent her hands from wandering to places they most definitely should not be wandering.

 

“You stole my clothes,” he says in a deep, raspy voice that sends a shiver down her spine. His breath tickles her cheek. “I've been wondering where my favorite Knicks shirt went.”

 

“I, uh-- they got mixed in with mine at the laundromat while we were on that case in Arkansas,” she manages, breathlessly.

 

Mulder nods his head slowly, not taking his eyes off hers.

 

“You’ve washed them since then. They smell like you.”

 

She looks away, and bites her bottom lip in embarrassment. He brings his knuckle to her chin, and forces her to look him in the eye.

 

“Have you been wearing my clothes?”

 

Her eyes widen at the brazenness of his question, and she panics. She could lie and say that she washed them when she got home to make sure they were clean, but somehow she doesn't think he'll buy it. It's better to just admit it, and move on.

 

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and before she has a chance to even contemplate her next actions, his lips collide with hers in a wet, sloppy kiss.

 

For a moment, she's so shocked that she forgets to move against his lips, but then he tilts his head to deepen the contact, sliding his hand to the back of her head, and coaxing a moan from her throat, which seems to snap her into action.

 

She always knew kissing Mulder would be incredible, but nothing could prepare her for how perfect his soft, pouty lips felt as they glided over hers, or how sensual his hot, silky tongue playing against the opening of her mouth would be.

 

His heavy breath tickles the damp skin on her lips as he pulls apart to switch sides, changing the angle, and devouring her mouth with a hunger so intense, it's almost overwhelming. It should be impossible for her to keep up with his frenzied pace, but her body is responding to him in ways she could’ve never imagined, and their lips dance together in perfect harmony.

 

So, this was what six years of blinding, unresolved sexual tension coming to a head felt like? How she's survived this long without experiencing such a kiss should be the world's greatest X-File.

 

Through all the haze, her mind barely registers the feel of his hand skimming under her shirt, stroking the sensitive skin of her belly. She tenses and breaks the kiss as though it suddenly becomes too much, too fast.

 

He stares at her, a confused look in his eyes, as he struggles to catch his breath.

 

“Mulder,” she breathes, shakily. “Mulder, what are we doing?”

 

“I thought it was pretty obvious,” he says, his voice thick with desire.

 

This was wrong. It felt right, but it was wrong. They couldn't do this. Not without talking first. Not until she knew where they stood.

 

Fighting against every cell in her body, she pushes past him to create some distance, and hugs her arms to her chest. Her knees feel weak, and she leans against the table to keep herself upright.

 

“Mulder, why did you come here tonight?”

 

He lets out a sigh, and scratches the stubble on his chin nervously.

 

“I, um, I--” he pauses to contemplate his next words. “I don't know, Scully, to make sure you were okay after our fight earlier, I guess. You just seem so... different lately. I can't figure out why you're acting the way you are.”

 

“In what _way_ am I acting, exactly?”

 

“It's not-- I mean-- God, I just,” he fumbles as the defensive nature of her tone throws him off guard. “I don't know how to respond when you purposefully put yourself in harm's way by getting a little too… friendly with strange men. It's not like you to be so reckless.”

 

She quirks an eyebrow him, dangerously.

 

“You’re preaching to me about being reckless?!” she raises her voice. “You walked to my apartment in the middle of a snowstorm wearing nothing but a thin coat, nearly collapsing from hypothermia on my floor, to.. to do what, exactly? Kiss me, then tell me that you're concerned I'm consorting with strange men?!”

 

“Scully, no I just-- I'm confused about your behavior lately, okay? You've been so distant towards me. You nearly jump into bed with my psycho neighbor… who happens to tell me that you're in love with me, by the way… and I catch you flirting with another guy at Quantico… and--”

 

“It's none of your business who I decide, or decide not, to develop a personal relationship with outside of work, Mulder! I've already told you!”

 

“Well, maybe I want it to be my business!”

 

She stares at him, and opens her mouth to say something, before walking over to the armoire to grab a pillow and blanket. They were going in circles. This fight was nearly identical to the one they had earlier today, and she couldn't put herself through this again. She was exhausted-- emotionally and physically. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, and forget any of this ever happened.

 

“I am not discussing this with you tonight, Mulder.” Depositing the bed linens on the couch, she turns to head towards her room. “You can sleep on the couch. I'm going to bed. If you need an extra blanket, the--”

 

“Dammit, Scully, I'm in love with you!”

 

Abruptly, she stops just as she reaches the threshold of her bedroom. The blood runs cold through her veins, and she feels a shiver run up her spine at his words. The tempo of her heartbeat rings loudly through her ears. She's afraid to move, standing frozen in place for what feels like eternity. Certainly, he didn't say what she thinks he said...

 

Did he?

 

His silence prompts her to finally turn and face him, and soon as their eyes meet, the lights cut off dramatically as if on cue. Confusion fills her thoughts before she realizes the power must've gone out.

 

“Shit,” she mumbles as she quickly heads to the kitchen. Mulder finds his way over to her, and they both silently scour the cabinets for candles and matches. Momentarily, they glance at one another awkwardly before clearing their throats, and continuing their frantic search. Finally, Mulder comes across a few candles, while Scully locates the matches, and the apartment is quickly bathed in the romantic glow of candlelight. It would actually be cozy if things weren't such a mess right now-- if the fate of their relationship wasn’t hanging precariously in the balance.

 

“My apartment's heating system runs on electricity,” she states, walking over to put another log in the fireplace. “The fire should be enough to keep us warm. For a little while, at least.”

 

Mulder nods, but doesn't say a word. They both stand in the middle of her living room, staring at each other quietly. The fire creates shadows that dance across his features, accentuating the sharp curves of his taut muscles underneath the thin material of his shirt. The urge to reach out and touch him is almost unbearable.

 

She wants to acknowledge what he just admitted to her only moments ago, but she's terrified. She's wanted this with him for so long, but now that it's an actual possibility, now that it's within her grasp, she's afraid of taking that next step with him, of crossing that line. There would be no turning back.

 

“I'm, uh, gonna hit the sack,” Mulder finally says as he moves to the couch, and grabs the throw pillows to stack them in the chair nearby, creating more room so he can lie down.

 

Scully reluctantly walks towards her bedroom. Maybe they just need time to think. “Okay,” she says, tentatively. “Good night, Mulder.”

 

“Night, Scully,” he says, soberly. She glances at him one last time, before disappearing into her room and shutting the door behind her.

 

•••••••••••

 

Mulder lays quietly on his back in the silence of Scully's living room. He hears nothing but the sound of his steady breathing, and the soothing crackle of flames in the fireplace nearby. The stillness of his surroundings are a complete juxtaposition to the chaotic thoughts running through his mind. There's no way he'll be able to sleep, so he just lays there… thinking.

 

This was not how he imagined the night would go. He wanted to confess his love for her, but not like this. He physically winces at the thought of how desperate he must've come across. What must Scully think of him? He almost feels ashamed at his blatant lack of self-control. As a matter of fact, he's stunned that Scully didn't haul off and slap him across the face as soon as he kissed her.

 

However, he's even more stunned that she returned his kiss. Enthusiastically, he might add. God, it felt incredible. It felt so right, so perfect. He had instantly become an addict. There's no way he could go back to before, and pretend that he doesn't know the way their lips fit so perfectly together.

 

The physical need to be near her is almost overwhelming. He craves her closeness-- physically aches for it. He wishes he could walk into her room, and crawl up next to her in bed, cradling her perfect body in his arms.

 

He's so desperately, irretrievably in love with her, it's frightening. He's never been this vulnerable to a woman before, and putting himself out there, wearing his heart on his sleeve so openly only to be rejected by the one person he cares about more than life itself, feels like emotional suicide. Yet, he can't continue living his life pretending as though he doesn't know exactly what he wants-- and who he wants it with. If he has to, he'll spend the rest of his life proving to Scully that he's worth the risk. That _they're_ worth the risk.

 

He's so consumed by his thoughts, he doesn't notice the outline of Scully's tiny form standing at the edge of the couch-- the glow of the fireplace bathing her in a golden light, giving her appearance an ethereal quality. He raises his head to get a better look as though his eyes are playing a cruel trick on him.

 

“Scully?” he says, quietly.

 

“I can't sleep in there. It's too cold.” Her small voice is hesitant, unsure. It tugs at his heart.

 

“C'mere, Scully.” He shimmies to the back of the couch, and lifts his blanket in a bold invitation.

 

She stills a beat, and he can practically hear the wheels turning in her head, before she finally moves to lay down next to him. He wraps the blanket around them, and lightly rests an arm around her torso, fighting the urge to snuggle against her. After a few moments, he finally feels her relax into him, and he turns his head to breathe in the scent of coconut and vanilla and Scully. It's intoxicating.

 

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

 

He almost asks her to clarify what she means, but he doesn't need to. He knows exactly what she's asking him.

 

“I meant every word.”

 

He feels her breathing hitch for a moment, her heart fluttering wildly against the wall of her chest where his arm is resting, before she lets out an unsteady breath.

 

“Tell me again,” she whispers as though she's in utter disbelief. Her skepticism isn't surprising; she's always required from him a little extra proof.

 

He raises up slightly on his arm to look over her, searching her eyes in the dark.

 

“I'm in love with you, Scully,” his rough voice breaks with the emotional weight of his admission. “Crazy in love with you.”

 

Before he can elaborate further, she's tugging him down roughly in a passionate kiss. He groans into her mouth as she nips and sucks at him uncontrollably. Her tongue darts out to massage his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth to grant her access. She explores every nook and cranny of his mouth: the inside of his top lip, the roof his mouth, his teeth… he's never experienced anything so sensual.

 

Relief at her reaction to his confession is quickly replaced by the burning desire coursing through his veins. He wants to devour her. The little noises she's making-- her sexy breaths and whimpers-- are making the blood rush straight to his groin. He feels himself growing harder, pressing against the soft flesh of her thigh.

 

In the heat of the moment, her shirt has ridden up slightly, and he seizes the opportunity to run the pad of his thumb along the dip of her hip bone. She sharply intakes a lungful of air at the skin-on-skin contact, and he feels her body quiver in response. Reaching over, she sneaks a hand under his shirt, lightly raking her nails over the tight muscles in his abdomen, and causing him to buck against her leg. They're both so overly-sensitized, even the slightest touch is enough to drive them crazy.

 

Removing her hand from underneath his shirt, she suddenly tugs at a fistfull of fabric to pull him down on top of her more fully. This new position exposes the smooth skin on her neck, and he dips his head to place wet, sloppy kisses along the underside of her jaw. Her heartbeat is fluttering fiercely against his lips, mirroring the beat of his own heart. Letting out a soft moan, she tilts her head back, as her hips buck against him in an attempt to increase the friction. The heat of her damp center suddenly comes into contact with his throbbing erection, and he groans deeply against her neck.

 

His mind can barely register that this is actually happening through all the haze. That Scully, his Scully, is lying beneath him impatiently, grinding her hips against his, and making sounds he's never heard before escape that perfect little mouth of hers.

 

After six years, there's hardly a side of her he's never seen. There is Unamused Scully who rolls her eyes at his stupid jokes, Playful Scully that once taped a “UFO Kid's Club” membership card (that she signed him up for) to the inside of his FBI badge, Fierce Scully who can stare down an armed felon without batting an eye…

 

But this Scully? This is a Scully he's never witnessed. This is a Scully who's lost all semblance of self control. This is a Scully completely consumed by feelings of pleasure.

 

This is Scully turned on. And it's unbelievably hot.

 

His hands move to the buttons on her nightshirt, slowly undoing each one until she is exposed to him, then he slowly trails his fingers up her toned stomach to the fabric of her bra. Tentatively, he covers one breast with his hand, palming it slightly, and relishing the way it feels in his hand. God, he could already tell she was perfect-- slightly larger than he'd anticipated, but definitely softer. His finger brushes up against a pert nipple as she lets out a soft moan, her hips rising up against his to seek relief. He involuntarily answers her movements by pressing his hardness into the flesh between her legs, and he feels a delicious tingle build deep in the pit of his stomach. He's never been this hard in his life and, for a minute, he's almost afraid he might come in his pants at the sensations coursing through his body.

 

They needed to slow down if she didn't want him to rip her pants off, and embarrass himself at how quickly this would all be over.

 

“Scully,” he whispers as she trails soft kisses against his jaw. “Scully, wait.”

 

“Hmmmm?”

 

“We, ah, need to slow down.”

 

She stops her ministrations to look up at him through lidded eyes.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing is wrong,” he almost chuckles. “In fact, everything is finally very right, but… if we continue, I'm not going to be able to stop myself from taking you right here on your couch.”

 

Ducking her head to his chest, she lets out a deep sigh.

 

“I want to do this with you, Scully,” he murmurs against her hair. “God, do I want to do this, but I don't want to rush things.”

 

Sometimes, he hates himself for being such a gentleman.

 

“You're right,” she says, shyly, while worrying the corner of her lip. “I guess, um, things are getting a little heated. I've wanted this for so long, and… God… I can't believe this is finally happening.” The raw emotion behind her voice makes his heart swell.

 

“Me either,” he smiles as he places a tender kiss to her forehead. “But I kinda like it.”

 

“Only kinda?” She tilts her head to look at him, and he can tell, even in the dark, that she's quirking her eyebrow.

 

“Well, if I really admit how much I like it, there's a chance I'll scare you away.”

 

“Mulder, of all the things you could do to scare me away, I'd say that's pretty low on the list.”

 

“You have a list?” he asks, suddenly intrigued. “What's at the top?”

 

“Wearing socks with sandals,” she deadpans.

 

“You're kidding.”

 

“It's something that I take very, very seriously, Mulder,” she says in a mock tone. “If I catch you wearing that, you'll be hunting aliens on your own.”

 

He pauses as if to let the full weight of her words sink in.

 

“What if it's warm enough to wear sandals, but I'm too afraid to commit to going sockless in case, say, it randomly starts snowing during a pretty, spring day?”

 

“That’s not too far-fetched considering current events, but no.”

 

“What if I have really long toenails, and I'm so self-conscious about them, that I have to cover them up while wearing sandals?”

 

“Ew, Mulder,” she scrunches her face, and lets out an amused chuckle. “Not even then.”

 

He snuggles his nose into the crook of her neck.

 

“What if I’m naked?” he says in a gravelly voice against her ear. She shudders against him, and he decides it's his new favorite thing-- making her do that. He's in rapture at how quickly her body responds to his.

 

“No exceptions,” she whispers weakly, her face drifting a little closer.

 

“Mmm, I'll concede to your unreasonable wardrobe regulations.” He pauses to trail a few kisses along her chin. She hums her approval.

 

“But only because I love you.”

 

He feels her lips curl up into a smile.

 

“I love you, too,” she breathes against his lips as his mouth covers hers in a sweet kiss. He swears the air is knocked from his lungs at hearing her actually repeat his words.

 

Within minutes, the kiss turns heated, their hands drifting to explore forbidden territory, and Scully pushes against his chest to break away, their lips separating with a loud smack.

 

“You're making this ‘no sex’ rule really difficult,” she says, trying to catch her breath.

 

“It's really more of a guideline,” he says, breathlessly, as he toys with the underwire of her bra. “Not even a guideline, really. More of a recommendation.” He slips a finger underneath the fabric.

 

He's never been one to follow the rules.

 

“Mulderrr, we can't,” she protests, letting out a frustrated sigh. “We need time to… to process this. To figure out what this means for us.”

 

He's thankful, and slightly annoyed, at her ability to be the voice of reason right now. He's not sure he has any self-control left.

 

“Ugh, I know,” he rolls onto his back, and tries to adjust the uncomfortable bulge taking up residence in his pants while she buttons up her top.

 

“I'm, uh, going to need a minute to… recover… before I can go to sleep,” he says as he gets up to head to the bathroom. “I'll be right back.”

 

He walks into the bathroom, and locks the door behind him, turning on the sink, and splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to settle down. It doesn't work. He silently recites the lines from his favorite movie _Plan 9 from Outer Space_ , then rattles off baseball stats in his head. It still doesn't work. He even reluctantly pictures Skinner in a hot pink string bikini. That only makes his stomach lurch.

 

Lifting up his shirt, he looks down to see the head of his stiff member peeking out from under the waistband of his sweats, large amounts of precum leaking from the tip. He is so worked up, that it would probably only take a few well-placed strokes to finally seek relief.

 

The thought of masturbating in Scully's bathroom makes him feel perverted-- but also a little excited.

 

He decides he really doesn't have a choice if he's going to spend the rest of the night innocently sleeping next to his beautiful partner.

 

Leaving the water running, he grabs a handful of tissues, and pulls his pants halfway down his legs. He firmly grasps his hard dick, and instantly bucks into his hand from being so overstimulated. Closing his eyes, and drawing his bottom lip into his mouth to stay silent, he runs his palm over the tip, gathering his slick juices to use as lubricant, before setting steady pace. It wasn't going to take long.

 

After a few strokes, flicking his wrist to stimulate the sensitive spot near the edge of his glans, his movements become quicker and more erratic. He feels his orgasm build low in his belly, and strokes himself two more times before erupting into the wad of tissues in his other hand.

 

Cleaning himself up, and flushing the evidence of his lewd act down the toilet, he washes his hands, and returns to the living room to find Scully curled up on the couch asleep, soft snores escaping her lips.

 

He quietly settles himself behind her sleeping form, careful not to disturb her, before sneaking an arm around her waist to hold her tight. He could definitely get used to this-- the way their bodies mold perfectly together, the steady rise and fall of her chest with each quiet breath. She is everything.

 

Thoughts of tomorrow-- what the future holds for him, for _them_ \-- begin to invade his mind. His insecurities threaten to make him question his ability to give Scully what she deserves from him in a committed relationship. He wonders if he's even capable of being what she needs.

 

Yet, for all the ways he's failed her in the past, he's determined to spend the rest of his life making up for it. Somehow, she's letting him in-- trusting him, like she always has, to love her, and he'll be damned if he's going to mess up this rare and incredible thing they have.

 

He doesn't want to think about that now, though-- not when she's tucked away so safely in his arms, sleeping so peacefully. If all they ever get is this perfect moment, he'll have died a happy man.

 

Within minutes, he's chasing her in a deep, tranquil sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Eventually, I'll be adding a part two that picks up after the episode The Unnatural, and how they navigate the consummation of their relationship.
> 
> Because, there's no way Fox Mantle didn't end up getting some after all his efforts that night ;)


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